In Plane Sight
by blockedthewriter
Summary: Alfred and Arthur meet in an airport while both of their flights are delayed. Awkwardness ensues.


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In Plane Sight

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It's strange the ways you can meet people.

"I did! I bloody well told them to sod off! Sodding twats had my tickets all botched up! I know—I know! Look, I've gotta go—no! No, I'll probably be here all night! What the hell do you think, you git? Does it sound like I'm gonna make it in time for Christmas morning if my plane isn't leaving till after then? No, you're a tosser, _that's_ the problem!"

Arthur shoved the cellphone into his pocket and slumped down against the cold plastic chair.

This is the way Alfred F. Jones met Arthur Kirkland. Perhaps it wasn't in the most conventional or the most pleasant manner, but well, it's not as if you often get to choose the way a person enters into your life.

"Goddamned arsehole," the Brit mumbled into his scarf.

Some people, for example, just push into your life without asking for permission. They just show up on your doorstep without any flowers, waltz into your kitchen with mud on their shoes, and start drinking the last of your orange juice straight from the carton. Yes, some people, you see, are American.

"Are you British?" Someone asked, because apparently the fact that Arthur's eyes had been closed hadn't been a sufficient enough sign that he didn't want to be talked to. Not that Alfred was the type of guy who read signs or even paid attention to what they said if he did.

Arthur turned to him.

"Well you're American," he countered, eyes flickering up and down.

"Uh, yeah," he scratched at the nape of his neck. "That obvious?"

The Englishman smirked. "Who else would be so intrusive?"

If Alfred were a smarter sort of a guy, he might have taken offense to that. But Alfred wasn't the smarter sort of guy. Alfred was the sort of guy who looked for his glasses when they were still on his face. So instead of being offended, the young adult was just all blue eyes and excitement.

"Well I think British shit is like, so cool! I wanna go there so bad!"

Arthur would have told the lad that flattery wouldn't get him nowhere, but well, it was certainly getting him _somewhere_ already. Not to mention Arthur was fairly certain that Alfred wasn't particularly trying to flatter him insomuch as he was just merely being honest. Honesty. Well wasn't that refreshing?

"So ya goin' home for the holidays?" Alfred asked.

Arthur stiffened. "Something like that."

Alfred quirked a brow. "Something like that? What's that mean?"

"It means I don't wish to discuss it further."

Without missing a beat, Alfred continued prodding. "Well why not?"

Arthur sputtered. He opened his mouth and gaped like a fish for a few seconds. He closed it.

"France." The Englishman managed tersely, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"I'm headed to France for the holidays," he continued, eyes flickering from side to side like he was making some sort of embarrassing confession and he was worried someone would overhear.

Alfred's brows knitted together. "Wait, so you're British, but you're goin' to France for the holidays? Ain't that like, illegal or something?"

Arthur chuckled in spite of himself. "Ought to be," he mumbled, lips still stuck in an amused half-smirk.

"Well I'm headed back to Canada for Christmas with my brother!" Alfred said, flashing white teeth and blue eyes. "An' I don't know 'bout France, but there's _nothin_' better than Christmas in Canada!"

A moment passed where Alfred looked almost...sad.

"Well, 'cept maybe Christmas in New York, but well—"

"Why don't you just stay then? Here in New York." Arthur quirked a brow.

Alfred glanced nervously at the time, and then back down at his ticket. He shoved it in his pocket.

"Don't got anybody to spend it with."

It took him merely the moment to finish his sentence to completely change his mood. He scratched at the nape of his neck, and for the first time since the two had met, Alfred appeared anything but happy—all sullen and disappointed in the blink of an eye.

"And I might not even get to see my brother," he said, glancing at the time again. "My flight's delayed, so I might not make it in time." Blue eyes trailed to the floor.

"Mine too, and I'm none the worse for it." Arthur shrugged, and Alfred's smile quickly slipped back onto his face where it belonged. He obviously wasn't the sort to dwell on things, at least. Alfred straightened his back, fixing his brown leather bomber jacket and yanking his hat off of his head.

"Well that's good, I mean—not good—but just, wanna get something to eat?" Arthur wasn't sure how young Alfred was, or exactly aware of how things went in America, but to his British ears the invitation sounded the smallest bit campy. Not that it mattered either way, Arthur supposed—and there went the American's hand, back at the nape of his neck again.

"I can pay for it!" Alfred rushed to say, "I mean, not that you can't—"

Arthur quirked a brow. "Are you asking me out a date?"

Alfred's hand quickly returned to the nape of his neck.

"You won't beat me up if I say I am, will ya?" The young man squinted and tensed, as if too afraid to open his eyes or for fear that Arthur would honestly just give him a blow to the head.

"I doubt I could if I wanted to," Arthur said, appraising Alfred's well-worked out torso.

"Not that I want to," he added, eyes twinkling with amusement. Alfred brightened.

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There are all sorts of dates that happen in this world. There are awkward dates, bad dates, first dates, and worst dates. There are last dates and break-up dates, dates where you propose, and dates where your girlfriend brings her parents. There are also dates on a calendar, and dates, the dried fruit from the date palm. There are also business dates, just-friends dates, and blind dates.

Alfred and Arthur, despite Arthur's negative attitude, passive-aggressive behavior, and scathing sarcasm, not to mention Alfred's absent-mindedness, nationalism, and awkwardness—and even stranger, a difference of an entire level of education, several years, and a completely different cultural background, well, the date they were having could have been described in one word: good.

At least, it had been.

"So you told me where you were goin', but where are you comin' from?"

"The Democratic-Republic of none of your business, actually."

Alfred laughed, snorted and to his horror, something wet hit the table. Arthur slowly looked up. It was around this time, that Arthur and Alfred began to think that this was indeed going to be a bad date. Arthur's exact thoughts were, actually: _this is going to be the date from Hell._

"D-did you just squirt Sprite out of your nose?"

Alfred, a dear in the headlights, stuck between a burst of laughter and the shock of what he'd just done, nodded and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Arthur chuckled in spite of himself, and rolled his eyes.

"You must have been a real pleasure to have in class."

Alfred shrugged. "Dunno. Never been to one."

Arthur stopped chewing. "What do you mean?"

"Home-schooled." That explained a lot, Arthur Kirkland liked to think. It explained a lack of social grace, the lad's willingness to ask out a strange man at an airport, and his general lack of—Arthur remembered the Sprite—social propriety.

What Arthur Kirkland didn't know, however, was that Alfred would have been the same brash, brave, bold young man even if he'd been raised with a good and proper English upbringing. And as far as social grace and propriety goes, it wasn't that Alfred didn't have any, but rather because this was also Alfred's first ever date—with anyone, _ever_. Not to mention Arthur made him fucking nervous as a goddamned schoolgirl, what with the way he acted as though nothing in the world mattered, as if Alfred could just keel over from a heart attack and all Arthur would do is say "bloody hell," and shrug his shoulders.

Not much personal discussion took place after that—Arthur wasn't one to pry, and Alfred barely had enough sense in him to breath and speak at the same time, much less steer an entire conversation. So instead they stuck to the mundane, the ordinary.

They talked about television shows, about how different the American versions were from the English versions, what episodes they'd most recently seen, and how funny or un-funny they were. They both confessed to still holding a fondness for Harry Potter and for reading tabloids when they thought no one else was looking. They shared their favorite color, favorite food, favorite season, and how they liked their steak cooked.

Not once, however, did either party ask the others' age, last name, or occupation. Alfred didn't ask Arthur why he was going to France for Christmas, and in return, Arthur didn't ask Alfred why such a good looking man as himself didn't "got anybody" to spend Christmas with.

To be blunt, they both knew better than to get too personal. They both knew that their flights would be leaving at the worst by tomorrow morning, and that after that, they'd probably never see each other again.

Arthur in particular knew why it was best not to get too personal. Unbeknownst to Alfred, Arthur Kirkland already had a boyfriend. A boyfriend he'd been going out with for seven years, to be exact. Arthur knew that tomorrow morning he'd be returning to France, and ironically named, to his long-term boyfriend, Francis. And he knew that even though he and Francis didn't always get along, they weren't going to break up any time soon; maybe even never break up.

Perhaps even get married or adopt one day. Not that Arthur wanted to be a parent, and not that he would ever voice those thoughts to Francis, who would only mock him for being a woman anyway.

The problem, however, wasn't that Arthur already had a boyfriend, but rather that Alfred was growing on him, akin to a fungus, and a little too rapidly for his liking—and for that problem, there was only solution.

"Excuse me, miss—" Alcohol.

:::

The thing about alcohol, however, is that it often creates more problems than it does solutions. For instance, now Arthur couldn't remember why he'd been so worried, and now he couldn't even feel all the snow despite the blizzard, but now he also couldn't walk or speak properly, and any sense of what had been a brain-to-mouth filter had been completely severed.

"You got pretty eyes..." Arthur managed through a slur of gibberish. "All pretty an' 'minds me of the sky." A lopsided grin made its way onto a formerly sullen face.

Alfred knew the man was drunk, but still—his cheeks warmed up—he couldn't help it, he'd never had a _man_ tell him his eyes were pretty.

Alfred was glad he was used to the cold. He'd lived in New York most of his life, and spent a fair share of his time in Boston and Canada as well. He knew what it was like to brave a blizzard, to trudge through snow when it came up to his knees, and to ignore the biting sting of freezing cold wind on his face. It was almost second-nature.

Holding a stumbling, completely smashed Brit up while waging said snowstorm, wasn't.

"A-Arthur, ya gotta help me here! Try an' stand up a little!"

"I am standin' up a little!" He shouted back, giggling.

The trek to the nearest hotel certainly hadn't been a short one. The look the lobbyist had given him hadn't been the most approving either. And the way the card-key hadn't worked the first three times he'd swiped it, well that was equally as assuring for how the rest of the night would fare.

Getting the man into bed had been the easy part, getting him to stay there, that's what was hard.

"Alfred, dun leave me. I'm cold!" Arthur whined from a few feet over, on an identical twin bed.

"Arthur, go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning," he said for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes. This hadn't gone well at all, had it? Alfred was the sort of guy who liked to blame things on himself. Maybe because he'd always been the oldest child, and his parents had always let the blame fall on him. But alas, it's all Freudian speculation. Regardless of the reason, Alfred somehow felt the deterioration of his first ever date was certainly his fault.

Arthur wasn't even aware that anything had deteriorated.

"Scooch _over_," the Englishman grumbled, lifting the blanket to get into bed with the American. Alfred almost jumped out of his skin—he hadn't even heard him walk across the floor.

Despite what his very active libido was telling him, Alfred was almost certain that sleeping next to the other man was a bad idea. In fact, on his top list of bad ideas, sleeping in bed with Arthur went way up there—right next to the time when he was seven and he'd tried to skateboard off of the roof and onto a ramp in the backyard that he'd constructed out of cardboard boxes.

Thank God Mathew had told on him before he'd even gotten the kneepads and helmet on.

"C'mon, there's room. _Scooch_." Alfred scooched. He couldn't help it, something about the tone had been demanding, and well, Alfred really did want Arthur in his bed with him.

He'd thought that would be it. Arthur would get into bed with him, they'd fall asleep spooning, and they'd wake up in the morning awkward and erect and late for their prospective morning flights. Arthur, however, had other plans.

The first thing he did not according to Alfred's plans, was get into bed and face him. Green eyes stared invitingly into blue ones and Alfred swallowed. The second thing he did was scooch so close that their noses were touching, and the third thing he did was lean in, and press a hand against the front of his boxers. The hand was warm and felt—god—so good, and when Arthur moved it just so, Alfred for the life of him couldn't understand why he'd thought getting into bed with the Brit had been a bad idea.

When said hand started to inch it's way beneath the hem of his boxers, with a jolt, Alfred remembered.

"Arthur—" The American started, wanting to tell him to stop, or maybe not so much as wanting to, but meaning to, at any rate. Honest. Any second now he was going to reach down, remove the Englishman's hand, roll over, and go to sleep. Arthur was drunk, _shit-faced drunk_. This was a bad idea.

"M'not drunk," Arthur mumbled, as if reading his mind. Alfred tried to inch backwards and out of reach anyway. It was no use; Arthur simply moved forward in unison and pressed his hand between his legs again, warm and good.

God, where was Mattie to tell on him now?

"You can't—Arthur, and, this is just—this isn't a good idea." Alfred, managed, finally having mustered up enough resolve to push the other man's hand away. He backed up further.

Dammit, he was so hard, and dammit, this was such a bad idea. _Fuck._

See, Alfred is having what most people call an internal battle. He's got two conflicting ideas jumbling around his head. One idea, which is allowing Arthur to continue to stroke his cock, that's the one he _wants_ to listen to. That's also the bad idea. It's the bad idea because Arthur is drunk and not completely in the correct state of mind to make those sorts of decisions. The other idea, which involves not allowing Arthur to touch his cock, and possibly getting up and sleeping in the other bed with an uncomfortable erection—

That's the idea he _really_ doesn't want to listen to.

Now if Alfred were like most guys, he'd simply listen to his dick, let Arthur continue to touch it, and feel no guilt about it later because, hell, Arthur had been offering.

Therein lies the issue, however. Alfred isn't most guys. Alfred's a much better sort of man. He's the kind of man that holds open car doors when he takes a lady out, he's the sort of man that helps a toddler find her Mommy, and he's most definitely not the sort of man who fools around with someone who's clearly inebriated. If you were to ask anyone who knew Alfred why, they'd simply tell you: _He's just that kind of guy._

It was at that moment, that he severely wished he weren't. Just for a night, he wished he were the type of guy to do it anyway. It was also at that precise moment, that a certain Englishman reached between his legs again, to which Alfred promptly backed up, got tangled in the sheets, and fell off the bed, dragging Arthur with him.

On the list of stupid things he'd actually _done_, that went right up there with letting Arthur get into his bed in the first place.

"Get off," Alfred grumbled, uncomfortable with being under Arthur—uncomfortable with being unable to control the situation. Arthur didn't budge. He did quite the opposite. He reached between their bodies and started right back up with the whole hand-on-crotch business.

While the fall and the minor head injury had knocked enough sobriety into Arthur to remind him that he had a boyfriend, it didn't knock quite enough sense into Arthur for him to care. Besides, he was hard, and Alfred was right there and _he_ was hard, and bloody hell—why did Alfred have to keep pushing his hand away?

"W-wait...!" Arthur stopped for a moment and Alfred quickly tried to formulate something to say to convince the Englishman that doing this was a bad idea.

"A-alright, um, how about—what if we just—how 'bout we just get ourselves off?" That wasn't bad, right? That didn't count as taking advantage of someone when they were drunk, did it? Alfred didn't think so.

"Is that...alright?" He asked again hesitantly. Just how drunk was Arthur anyway?

Drunk enough to simply fall asleep, apparently.

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The next day went nearly as Alfred had predicted it.

They woke up too late, stuck to each other in a tangle of sheets and sweat, and awkwardly looked away. The magic of the dinner and the chemistry they'd shared from the night before had vanished, instead replaced with shifty eyes and a closeness that only made them uncomfortable. The process of disentangling themselves from the sheets and one another went far too slowly for both of them.

With no time to shower, Alfred merely threw on the same clothes he'd worn the night before, while Arthur hurriedly laced his boots. _So this is it, then._ Alfred couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

They put on their coats in silence, and it wasn't until Arthur was putting on his scarf that he realized they'd both left their luggage behind at the airport. Hopefully it was still there.

Neither of them said anything of real substance until they left the hotel. It was Arthur.

"Sorry about last night," he offered, feeling right daft about it, too. He'd really botched last night up. He'd gotten completely pissed. Damn his inability to hold his alcohol. And as much as he could recall, Alfred hadn't had anything to drink at all. So while bits and pieces of embarrassment and shame were slowly piecing themselves together in Arthur's brain, Alfred could already remember the entire tonight.

"It's alright," Alfred said, even though, really, it wasn't. Another thing that Arthur didn't know was that what had happened the night before was as far as Alfred had ever been with another guy. Alfred felt like some kind of retard for that now. He'd always remember his first date and almost-hand job as having been with some British git who couldn't give a shit if he died or lived.

Such was life, at times, though Alfred didn't like to believe it.

Not much was said after that, and so the short walk to the airport became a quiet, arduous one. The foot of snow on the ground didn't help matters. Arthur was clearly struggling with it.

When they reached the airport, Christmas music was playing, and it was then that the two remembered it was Christmas. Almost simultaneously, they turned to each other.

"Merry Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

They stared at each, green and blue, and for a moment, the feeling from the night before was back. The feeling that there was some sort of connection between them, some sort of chemistry, this weird, warm, almost comfortable feeling—

Then someone's phone rang, and the moment was broken. Two sets of eyes glanced down.

"It's mine," Alfred managed. Arthur nodded as Alfred flipped open his phone and answered it.

"Hello?" It was Mattie.

Some people just leave your life entirely without your permission. Some people think that it just won't work, or that you're busy, and quietly, but meaning well, slip out the back door when you're not looking without even so much as a wave goodbye. Yes, some people, some people are British.

By the time Alfred had said hello and glanced back up, the Brit had disappeared into the crowd.

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twelve months later

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"I know Mattie, I know! I'm sorry I just—I think, I need to spend Christmas by myself this year! I dunno why—no it's not your fault, I swear! It's just, look, we've already had this talk, I dunno why you're calling me. Of course I know you care about me! I care about you too, Mattie—look, don't be like that! No, I'm just, yes, I'm still eating Christmas dinner. With no one! I told you, I'm having it by myself, I'll see you for New Year's!"

Alfred shoved the cell phone into his pocket and slumped down on the cold cement in front of the grocery store.

"Trouble with your boyfriend?" A familiar voice asked. Alfred noted the British accent almost immediately.

"My brother," Alfred clarified, looking up.

Arthur smiled. "Thought that might be you, throwing yourself a bloody pity party right outside in the snow."

Alfred frowned. He figured it was the Englishman. They'd run into each other a total of six other times since the year before when they'd first met. It didn't make any statistical or logical sense to run into the same person so often—especially when they didn't even live in the same country. And sure, maybe the Brit traveled a lot, but even then—six times? Each time had been more disastrous than the last. It wasn't even until the fifth time that he'd found out that the Brit had had a boyfriend the entire time. Go figure.

"It's not open, you know. The store." Alfred nodded. He'd known before he'd left the house, but had just sort of hoped against hope. Not that it'd done much.

"I needed cranberry sauce," Alfred muttered sullenly.

Arthur, realizing the American wasn't getting up anytime soon, sat down on the frozen sidewalk beside him.

It'd been an entire year since the day they'd first met. They'd changed a lot. Alfred, in particular, was a good deal more experienced, while Arthur, in particular, was a good deal more single. Both were about as equally lonely, having chosen to spend Christmas alone, to avoid the chaos and burden of the busy holiday. Ironically, Alfred had stayed home in part to avoid the possibility of running into Arthur at the airport, on his way to France for the holidays. Which reminded him.

"Shouldn't you be in France?" There was far more venom in the words than Arthur considered necessary.

"No, I broke up with him."A short, awkward, silence settled over them, sending Alfred scrambling for something, _anything_ to say.

"Why're you out here anyway? Out here at this store?"

There was another silence.

"I was hoping it was open."

Alfred inhaled deeply. "Well no shit, what for?" Agitation was evident in his voice and his fuse was running short.

"I, erm—I, uh, that is to say that, well—I forgot the turkey, actually."

Alfred burst into laughter—knee-slapping laughter. He couldn't stop. It sounded incredibly loud in front of the eerily empty storefront. It was New York, after all. Deserted streets were an abnormality.

Arthur looked away as his face turned to match a tomato.

"Y-you forgot the turkey? Who forgets the entire turkey? I mean, yeah, I forgot the cranberry sauce, _that's_ forgettable! How the hell do you forget the _turkey_?"

"Oh the belt up and sod off already! I remembered every other bloody thing! Besides, Francis usually cooks!"

A hushed quiet fell again, leaving Arthur to fume with a heated face.

"Wait, your boyfriend's name was Francis? And he lived in France?" Another peal of laughter. "That's rich, Francis from France!" He snorted and almost immediately silenced. If he'd had soda, it would have shot out of his nose.

"Sorry, it's just that, you're kind of an asshole, what with the way you left that first time. And then the whole never telling me you had a boyfriend thing."

"You returned the favor the third time we ran into each other!"

"When?" Alfred's voice was rising, incredulous. Was the Brit keeping numbers in a little organizer or something?

"Remember, you said you were going to the loo and never came back when we were out at dinner!" The bloody git had left him waiting for twenty minutes before Arthur had gone to look for him, only to find the bathroom empty.

"Something came up! And 'sides, _you_ had it coming! And, hey, I paid for everything for the first date!"

"Please enlighten me to how something just "comes up" while you're in the loo! Did you shit your trousers—and besides, our first date wasn't at a restaurant where chicken and carrots cost sixty-three dollars!"

"_You_ picked the goddamned restaurant!"

"Well it's a bloody good restaurant!"

Silence and cold enveloped them and Arthur wondered if perhaps Alfred was just making him barmy. He was outside on Christmas night, with no turkey, in front of a grocery store that wasn't even open, next to a guy that would right bite his arm off. He was definitely going mad. Bloody brilliant. Just what Arthur needed.

Something dawned on him.

"Hey, what about the time when you said I could stay at your flat because my flight was canceled? You left to get your car and never came back!"

"Something_ came up_! Maybe I changed my mind! None of your goddamned business!" Arthur could feel his blood pumping faster. What does that mean, _something came up?_ How?

"How is you not picking me up when you said you would _not_ my business?"

"I don't know, just like where you live is the democratic-republic of non of _my_ business!"

"It's not!"

"Well why the hell are you even in New York all the goddamned time anyway! Why are you here now?"

"_Maybe_ I live here!"

"Oh, well I thought it wasn't my _business_!"

"It's _not_!

"Then why'd you tell me?"

"You are such an arse!"

Somehow over the course of the argument, they'd moved from sitting on the iced sidewalk to standing on it.

"Fuck you!"

"Sod off!"

"Douchebag!"

"Tosser!"

And with that last statement, Arthur moved to push the other man, lost his footing on the slippery sidewalk, and began to fall. Almost instinctually, Alfred grabbed for him, pulling the shorter man against his chest while bracing himself against the wall.

And just like that, they were hugging.

Suddenly it didn't matter who'd left who or done what. It didn't matter because there they were now, together. Alfred was tall and warm—and had his shoulders always been so broad? Arthur hid his face in the leather, drawing comfort from the masculine scent that was all Alfred.

"I moved to New York so I'd run into you more," Arthur confessed quietly into Alfred's leather jacket. Alfred could feel a lump form in his throat. "I don't have a car," Alfred confessed in return.

"Then why did you say—"

"I don't know, I just thought that like, it would seem impressive...y'know? I'm an idiot."

Arthur shook his head and the two shared a laugh.

"Well if it's confessions we're doing here," Arthur started, looking up, "I wasn't quite as pissed as you thought I was that night."

"Pissed?"

"Drunk, inebriated—you get the idea. I was sober enough to kinda—to know better. So, I win, I think." Arthur turned away again.

"Not so fast," Alfred started, attempting to catch Arthur's eyes. "Remember the first time we met?" Arthur nodded and Alfred's hand flew to the nape of his neck. Arthur knew he was going to say something important now.

"Well, my flight wasn't delayed," he finished.

Arthur's brows knitted together.

"What do you mean? You said that—"

"I—well, I lied. I just wanted to take you out on a date."

Arthur took a step back. He stared at Alfred.

"Wait a second. You blew off an airline ticket and a trip to your brother's for Christmas to go on a date with a random man you'd never met?"

"Yes?" Alfred nodded and shrugged. "I always follow my instincts."

Arthur smiled and leaned in so close that he could feel Alfred's breath on his cheek.

"Oh really? And what are your instincts telling you now?"

Alfred smirked. "That we should get inside before we freeze our nuts off." Alfred paused and with a mockingly exaggerated innocence, continued:

"Why, what are yours saying?" He cocked his head.

"That I should kiss you, moron." It was Arthur's turn to deliver a smug look. "Too bad you always listen to your instincts..."

Alfred smiled and leaned forward.

"Well, maybe we could listen to yours, just this once."

Arthur closed the space between them, kissing the other man thoroughly. Alfred grinned.

::::


End file.
